


A Sham Burial

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Raffles, Reunion Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-03
Updated: 2013-01-03
Packaged: 2017-11-23 13:33:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/622734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This fic is greatly inspired by the scene from the story by EW Hornung, 'An Old Flame'. But any prior knowledge of it is not necessary. At all.<br/>It is a reunion fic between John and Sherlock. Nice and simple.<br/>T for swearing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Sham Burial

**Author's Note:**

> While they are not necessary, they are rather good, and deserve to become popular once more. A revival is due, and they are basically Johnlock fanfiction, so why not give Raffles a try, eh?  
> Enjoy.  
> Disclaimer: the characters belongs to ACD, they specific character adaptations to Moffat and Gatiss and all that lot, and the plot to EW Hornung.

He needed to stop doing this. Ella- Ella was right. Damn her for it, but she was right. But... he had cut out most of the trips, after three years. Thirty six months. One hundred and fifty six weeks. This was not good. This was unhealthy. He had to stop this.

He would stop coming back Not altogether, no, he would ease himself off. Stop coming monthly, however hard it had been to get down to that little. He would get it down to once a year, he would carry on living.

“What am I doing?” He asked the gravestone, staring at the simple carved letters, no more information, not much more than a blank grave, a heap of unidentified soil, with a simple name carved in the top.

But it was so much more than that, it was his best friend.

He was about to leave, when there was a sound behind his back. a snapping of a twig, the rustling of dried leaves on the cold ground, and a light breath. John did not react. He did not move. He did not, himself, make a sound. And, at his inaction, the sound stopped, but there was no sign that the intruder made a retreat.

“You are John Watson.” The stranger said, his voice heavy and harsh, dangerous and hostile. It was not a question, and John had no intention of treating it as such. It was a statement. A simple thing, and there was no doubt what he meant. “You were his friend.” The man said, “Why?”

John did not reply, he did not acknowledge that this man was there.

“It was, what, three years ago? Why are you still here? Why are you still mourning? What was he to you, that this is still important to you?”

“He was my best friend! Who are you, to ask me why I am here? He was my best friend, he saved me. What’s it to you, what I am doing with my life, anyway?” His voice was calm, his face still. His mouth was moving, but nothing more. He was just going through the motions, as always. Responding to the usual criticisms. They had been less common, as of late, but they still occurred, every now and then. All he had to do was walk away, but it was harder than it looked. It was harder than it felt, when he looked back on it.

“He was a liar, a cheat, a fraud! Does that not bother you? How can you stand up for him, after everything that he did to you?” At this, John turned round, eyes burning. His hand was gripping the handle of his cane, which was hanging limply at his side. His hands were steady, as he half-heartedly raised it half up, as though he was going to attack in some way, but was not quite sure. He seemed to decide against any kind of attack, but the adrenaline was still rushing through his veins, and he stood up slightly straighter, his military background shining through.

John looked at the stranger, up and down, possibly for the first time in a while did he take anything in. The man was young, tall; he looked like one of the graffiti artists that John had got mixed up with, lo those many years ago. But John pulled his mind back to the present. Looking to... then, he felt...

There were indeed what looked like paint stains, smeared over the jacket that the stranger was buried in.

“I knew Sherlock Holmes. And that means far more than anything you could have read in a tabloid.” John spat out the last word, it feeling like blood in his mouth.

“Yeah, well you’re deluded!” the stranger said, before kicking a stone at the grave. As he walked away, John heard his half-shout “Fucking deluded!” John began to follow him, but as the stranger carried on out of the graveyard, he began to pick up speed, working his way into a run. John followed him, matching the man’s speed. His legs ached a little from lack of activity, but the sound of the blood pumping in his ear was like a battle drum, willing him on. Why was he doing this, chasing an overgrown adolescent through the streets of London? Why? He couldn’t explain it to himself, but the feeling of doing something was enough, was almost too much.

He saw the man calling for a taxi, and sped up, arriving at his side just as he was getting in. In the thrill of the chase, John hardly noticed the feeling of being pulled in after the man, and the sight of the arm that stretched over and pulled the door shut. He did not know where this had come from, but John did not like the look of this man, and, damn covert, he was stuck in a taxi with this man.

“Who...” John turned round to the stranger, in time to see him pull something from his nose, wincing as what looked like rubber popped off, away from his skin. He pulled down his hair, and with it his hair cut, and soon, Sherlock was sitting in beside John Watson, who was staring at him, like he had just turned into a bunny rabbit.

**Author's Note:**

> I apologise for the Bunny joke at the end. It was too much to resist.


End file.
